Envisioning Salvation
by Vialana
Summary: I’ll be the first to admit I never think things through as much as I should ...


**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or the characters from the books depicted within.**

_I have to admit I didn't like HBP all that much, but there were parts of it that intrigued me and have been continuously haunting my thoughts. _

_And so, here is the result of said haunting._

_Warnings: one-shot, very mild language (maybe one word)_

**Envisioning Salvation**

I'll be the first to admit I never think things through as much as I should. Why should I? After all, the world is handed to me on a silver platter and I'm well aware of it. I know what others say of me, I'm spoiled and selfish, far too arrogant and spiteful.

I've never denied it; I've just never really understood why others care so much about how self-involved I am. _Self-involved_: meaning, affecting only myself, no one else. It's an easy and safe way to live.

I never have to care that I've hurt someone's feelings, only that I am satisfied. I never have to care what the world is really like, only that my world is filled with things that benefit me.

Oh, a part of me knew what I was doing; I just dismissed it as less than important.

Such a childish and ignorant way to live; innocent in its own despicable way.

I wish I could still live that way.

Spiders crawl over my fingertips and I try not to flinch, repeating to myself that they're not poisonous. They eventually slide into a splinter-thin gap between planks of slowly rotting wood.

I'm lying on a dirty floor in robes over two days old. I would care more about my blackened palms were the rest of me not just as dark and filthy. I really should get up — it's cold and there's a draught close to the door, but there's nowhere else for me. The room is bare, cobwebs the only thing standing. There's not even a window to let light in, I must rely on the thin gaps in the peeling walls to discern the spiders making my body their new home. I must be warmer than the corners they're used to.

Perhaps I'm still the same as I was. It's possible I'm wallowing in self-pity, but I can't be sure. The only times I've felt pity for myself have been the result of petty events. Even then I would lash out vindictively at the closest weak target to make myself feel better.

It is a wonder what tiny dark spaces can do for the mind. I've never been so self-aware before. I was a little shit. I still am I suppose. I'm not having an epiphany here, I don't suddenly feel guilty for all the years I spent torturing those beneath me — hell, I still think of everyone else as beneath me — I'm just getting a new perspective on myself.

Still as self-absorbed as ever.

Everything's about me, it always is and always will be.

Except when it's not …

A man saved my life recently and in doing so killed one of the few people who meant anything in the world to him. Normally this wouldn't matter to me, only … I was supposed to kill that person and I couldn't. I still don't understand why — it was in my best interest to kill him and it wasn't like he could have harmed me. He was helpless before me: an old man, slumped to the floor. Maybe he was already dying, I don't know.

He knew, I think, what I'd done, why I had to kill him. Maybe that was why I couldn't do it. He all but handed himself to me on a silver platter and I couldn't even summon the strength to harm him in the slightest.

I wonder what my father would say.

I wonder what my _mother_ would say. I did do it for her after all, so she'd be safe, so I'd be safe. I'd bring us glory and honour and everything would be as it should be — we'd be seated at the right hand of darkness once more.

You'd think I'd hate him more for taking this from me, but I don't. I didn't understand why it happened as it did that night as we were running away, but now, after days in darkness and filth, I'm starting to see the truth of what I am.

"Pathetic."

I start at the sound of a voice, scrambling to my knees and glancing into every nook and cranny of this room to find the source. There's nothing, no change and I touch my throat, realising it was my own voice.

No tears. Never again. It's not worth it. I'm not worth it. I wonder if I ever was.

I'm afraid of the dark. Of what hides in there, what secrets it holds. It devours. I know I'd lose myself in it and never care that once I was a person.

I'm just as afraid of the light. It's searing, doesn't let me hide from what I am, what I could be, what I want to be.

Perhaps it's still very childish of me, but I want to be exactly who I am now.

The door opens and a faint sheen of grey washes over the floor. The spiders scuttle to their cracks, preferring the darkness. It's no contest for them. The floorboards vibrate from heavy footsteps and I look up as a thin hand reaches down for me.

"We have to leave, Draco."

He stands outlined in the pale twilight of morning. There'll be a storm later, the light's too dark and there's a smell on the wind. He doesn't seem to care, eyes sunken staring into mine. He's ill and I know I'm partially to blame. His eyes aren't red but they should be.

I take his hand and he takes us away from everything we've ever known. We walk the path of shadows as we try to stay ourselves.

It's not a silver platter, but if I look hard enough, I can see the shining threads woven into the track.


End file.
